Don't Touch My Goddamn Piano
by Ophelia Violet
Summary: As the shenanigans at McKinley progressed, one sane man was watching it all, and he wasn't entirely amused. "Brad the piano guy," as he's known, retells every episode of Glee from his point of view. T for language, concrits welcome!
1. Prologue: Thankless Job

McKinley High School. In the unremarkable town of Lima, Ohio, it was just as ordinary and atypical as everything else. Lumbering jocks guffawed their way through class, aided by coaches desperate to keep them from failing so they could go on to lose another football game; cheerleaders sashayed down the halls like they owned the place, which they pretty much did; and everyone else was just sort of there, moving through classes silently, as their teachers all had far too many personal issues to adequately teach.

It was the last place I would have expected myself to end up, but at least it was predictable. Good enough for my golden years, even if a bit bland.

At McKinley, I wasn't really a teacher. I was in charge of the band, a group of isolated loner rejects who were content to teach themselves music. I only taught the golden rule: "Shut up and play." The most exciting thing that usually happened in afterschool band meetings was someone breaking a string, and if it was one of the insipid, entitled members I would have to fix it. And during the school day, I had to supervise the room to protect it from vandalism, which was always a threat, and the kids timidly walked in during their free periods as though they were expecting a goddamn invitation. But on a whole, I had begrudgingly grown accustomed to the band kids, mainly because they were quiet and didn't require much social interaction. Hell, I barely knew all their names, and they knew me only as "Brad the piano guy."

What can I say? I had a soft spot for piano. Sometimes I'd play melodies for the band kids, or play along with them. For a bunch of kids who probably feared a conversation more than they would an axe murderer, they came together when playing songs quite well.

Yes, everything was fine until the band and I collided with the glee club and Will Schuester.


	2. Chapter One: Pilot

It was another ordinary, dull day. The cheerleaders were practicing their latest ludicrously improbable stunts amidst screaming from an unappeased Sue Sylvester. Sue and I had never spoken, but I had to admire her work ethic. She was pretty much the only one who got shit done around here, even if "shit" for Sue translated into "amassing yet more money for her life-endangering routines." But it paid off when her Cheerios went to Nationals, so in the end, what could you say? Besides the obvious affirmation of Sue's more ridiculous tendencies, of course. You could say that.

From a window I observed the gay kid being thrown in a dumpster again. Shame, really; he had a rather nice and expensive-looking satchel. I was the sort of man who could appreciate a good, sturdy satchel. And there was Schuester, just blithely walking on by.

_Honestly, you're still in earshot, how could you not notice they're throwing him in there? _I wondered, shaking my head.

I wasn't in the mood to throw some punches, though, and by this point the gay kid ought to be really, really good at getting the garbage smell off of his clothes. By this point it was practically a routine. In fact, "practically a routine" could be applied to virtually everything that happened in Lima. After many years of living in this town, the dull familiarity of it all had become more of a comfort than an annoyance.

I passed Schuester in the hallway; once again, he was gazing at those old show choir trophies with an expression of near reverence. I vaguely recalled that he had some sort of connection to McKinley's old show choir, distinct from the current one as the current one sucked more than a Hoover vacuum. But that particular bit of information was filed in my mind under "Shit that doesn't matter," like most of the information I had gleaned about him over the years. The only reason I remembered that Schuester taught Spanish was because he was so miserably incompetent at it.

In the choir room, Sandy Ryerson was practicing a song with some hapless student. I gritted my teeth as I listened to the notes of the piano drift out of the room. The band also practiced in that room, and that piano happened to be mine. But with the emphasis on sports and idiocy at McKinley, we could only afford one piano and were forced to share it. Sandy nearly always left sheet music on the stand and had long overstayed his welcome in the choir room.

_Honestly, what the fuck? It ought to be the band room, seeing as we're there more often. We don't even have a choir, _I fumed for what had to be the hundredth time. Was a glee club a choir?

I heard voices coming out of the break room and swiftly turned in the other direction. Within there was only more petty bitchslapping as if we were all trapped in a melodramatic teen movie and everyone was a teenage girl in the weeks leading up to prom. I only went in there when I was certain no one else was there, and even then, the tall windows let it far too much peppy sunlight for my liking.

I strained to remember the complicated politics of the teachers' relationships, but then remembered I really couldn't care less. Some sort of love triangle, no doubt, just like usual.

But I received good news that day; Sandy was fired, allegedly for "inappropriate relations" with a student. Believable enough. But quickly, my elation over reestablishing my possession of the piano was dashed; Schuester was rebooting the glee club, and the band and I were needed to play over the vocals. Fuck.

The next day, Schuester held auditions. I sat at my piano, wearily playing tired old melodies. Even so, I couldn't help but enjoy myself a little bit. Piano always did that to me.

Some girl belted out Aretha Franklin. Chord. Chord. Chord. _I hate this job, _I reflected as she shouted over the notes. What was her name again? It was some sort of car name…probably Thunderbird. How unique. _Wish I had a Thunderbird, _I thought longingly, also realizing my wish to tear down this school with a chainsaw.

Next, I saw a familiar face. _Gay kid! _I thought, almost fondly. My assumptions had been correct: the stench of decaying rubbish was completely gone, as was his satchel. I was disappointed; I was meaning to ask him where he got it. It looked to be a good satchel worth a portion of my meager salary. _I hope he's not one of those people who never wears the same outfits or accessories a second time._

I was rather amused by his song choice. Mister Cellophane indeed, especially considering he remained with his hip popped for the duration of his audition.

Goth Asian girl stepped up next, singing some samey pop melody that was almost as mind-numbing as this entire process. I think she made an obscene gesture at Schuester, which was probably meant to be the most memorable event of this entire day and perhaps the entire week.

I was pleasantly surprised to find myself playing "On My Own" for the loud girl. Sure, it was pretty cliché, but at least it had a pleasant melody. But the loud girl insisted on singing the entire goddamn song, which was rather tiresome. _It's an audition, not your solo, _I thought, tempted to take an extended piano solo just to throw her off. Why the hell was Schuester even having auditions? It was obvious the glee club was desperate for members and would accept anyone. But no, and I was forced to sit here and bang out tunes in the background like I was an android wearing a suit made of wallpaper.

The afternoon found me playing a tune for the misshapen crew of five social rejects. They reminded me fondly of the band kids until they started speaking and demanding attention. Schuester vaguely gestured at me as though I had to be reminded to keep playing. Again, like an android wearing a wallpaper suit, except now I was a stupid android who randomly forgets its task in the midst of the action.

I couldn't help but smile as I watched them prance about; they were absolutely terrible at group performance, and the loud girl kept hogging the spotlight while the gay kid awkwardly made physical contact with goth Asian girl. The atmosphere became frenzied as Schuester got more frustrated and the tempo sped up. I felt like an impish agent of chaos as the wheelchair kid hurtled into a wall. _I think I will call him Wheels, _I decided.

"We suck," the loud girl declared. I was about to heartily agree when Schuester cut in with some motivational bullshit. I came to realize in that moment that my input wasn't expected. I simply was their piano-playing android, except I did not have the ability to morph my limbs into machine guns, which was regrettable.

Wheels interjected something about performing ironically. I immediately branded him as a hipster. Apparently the loud girl had more of an aversion to hipsters than I did, and stormed out in a huff. Seeing as the loud girl was really carrying the performance vocally, the rehearsal disintegrated rather quickly after her exit.

All the talk around McKinley led to the same conclusion: glee club was stuck into the high school caste system, and they were the Untouchables. Fortunately, being little more than a set piece, the association with glee didn't really affect me. Schuester, however, took a lot of damage over it all. It would stir up some sort of empathetic reaction if I didn't hate him for forcing me into these shenanigans.

Then one day, the football kid, Hudson, showed up at rehearsal.

_The hell is he doing here? _I wondered, watching him awkwardly attempt to dance. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, and I knew the other football players wouldn't let this go so easily. I tried to ask Schuester how he'd convinced the kid to join up, but he acted like he didn't hear me. When he wasn't looking I simultaneously flipped him off and played the songs they ordered me to. What can I say? I had serious talent. It's just what happens when you devote a good chunk of your life to art; eventually, you become ridiculously talented.

The loud girl seemed to take a shine to him, though. Once again, Wheels ended up careening across the stage. Then again, if I were wheelchair bound, I would constantly sit in a souped-up bumper car and demolish anyone who dared to cross my path at ridiculous velocities, so I couldn't really look down upon his need for speed.

Thunderbird seemed unhappy with the loud girl and the doofus jock getting solos, but the entire matter resolved itself so quickly I wondered why anyone even bothered to bring it up in the first place.

But quickly after this, Schuester announced his intention to quit. It seemed to good to be true; I was to be free of this glee club so soon after resigning myself to a dull fate filled with background music! I wouldn't have to teach the band any new music, nor listen to the inevitable drama loud girl would create (I just had a feeling about that one), or even be directed around by Schuester like I was his little piano-playing bitch!

I found Schuester the following day playing guitar and singing in the middle of the auditorium, clearly pained over his decision. _What a pansy, _I remarked to myself. It was then that I noticed that he, too, had a fine satchel and reconsidered buying one. Perhaps instead, mine will be black instead of brown.

But for some inane reason, the club continued without Schuester under the dictatorship of the loud girl. They all argued so much all I had to do was sit back and watch the drama unfold. I was about to partake in a leisurely stroll down memory lane and reminisce about my complex past when doofus jock and Wheels rolled in, with doofus jock acting like he hadn't ditched the club at all and was totally dedicated to singing now. It was, remarkably, surprising and predictable all at once. Surprising in that he could string along coherent thought long enough for such a speech, and predictable because, come on, who wasn't expecting him to "choose the right path"?

Suddenly, I recalled why I liked Wheels so much; he played guitar. I could vaguely recall him playing short bursts of melody in the choir room during his free periods. I strained to remember his name as the club plotted a musical uprising, but he had never needed correction or assistance in band, except that one time when he became wedged in a doorstop. At that point, I had been too busy cursing as I freed him to ask his name.

That afternoon, the musical uprising came to fruition. Wheels had somehow assimilated the band into acting as a cohesive unit, and united, glee club and the band performed as I watched. It was surreal; this meant that the band kids had _actually conversed with other humans. _Perhaps it was because Wheels was one of them, despite his forays into show choir, but even so. I wouldn't have believed it if the results of a true social interaction weren't being played out before my eyes.

And then suddenly, doofus jock started playing drums! What the hell? He was never in afterschool band! He's not certified to use those drums!

The glee clubbers really put some heart into this. I suppose it was endearing, in a very sad way; surely without Schuester, they wouldn't be able to keep the club afloat and, more than likely, this would be their first and only great performance. The band kids, on their part, were perfect, except for the fact that even among the school's lowest of social classes, the band kids were somehow glee's wallpaper as I was. It would probably be better to spare themselves the effort of learning all these songs and instead use their instruments to bash some heads.

But there again was that flickering feeling of empathy: _Glee's days are numbered. It's okay to let them have this one shining moment._

But as the performance ended, I heard three little words that were about to change my life forever.

It was Schuester saying, "From the top."

Goddammit.


	3. Chapter Two: Showmance

**Hey, everyone! Yeah, I know, it's been awhile, but real life has been getting in the way. Did you know that it can take something like two and a half hours for me to get a chapter of this written? And that's if I'm not interrupted or distracted, and in my house things don't always work out that way. But we're back now with a little showmance. Enjoy! (Oh, and thank you all so much for your kind reviews; I'm so happy and flattered that people like the story!)**

The glee club was causing quite a bit of stir. Unfortunately, no one had yet realized that the group's name sounded rather lewd if consonants got slurred, and so all the talk was simply petty battles over "turf." Sue and Schuester, somehow lumped into the same general budget, were competing for dominance as McKinley's premier "arts program," seeing as now cheerleading was "art." Was I the only one that realized that it would make far more logical sense for cheerleading to compete for money with the extraneous sports programs?

The afternoon found me playing along during glee club rehearsal as the kids, only two of whom were not awkward white kids, attempted a disco number. Schuester called for energy. In my mind, I called for a meteor to end our collective misery. At least that would be interesting enough to have people in Lima talking for the next fifty years or so.

Thunderbird called everything to a halt. Was this to be her thing, like the loud girl's thing was storming out and being even more of an attention whore in doing so?

Schuester attempted to convince them all that the song wasn't that terrible, even though it was. Behind his back, I scoffed. Schuester's thing was definitely motivational bullshit. This was all too simple to figure out; did they all only possess one character trait?

The gay kid called the song "gay," but he's gay so it's okay for him to use that word as a synonym for "stupid." I suspect if the loud girl had said it the entire school would pitch her off a cliff. Again, that would probably have everyone in Lima talking for the rest of their natural lives, and I clung to the hope of something that exciting occurring.

Then, Schuester dropped the bomb on the group: they were to be performing for the entire school. I chuckled to myself, highly anticipating the trainwreck this performance was meant to be. He somehow justified this social suicide by claiming "Freak Out" won the past glee club a title at Nationals. Apparently, nothing ever changes and the same song will always work every single time. I was even further amused watching the doofus jock break out in a nervous panic in anticipation of the performance. The boy was sweating buckets at the mere prospect. I suppressed the urge to tell him to grow a pair.

Some days, I was left to supervise the glee club while Schuester took his sweet time in getting to the choir room. Even when they weren't horribly failing at not looking like idiots when they danced, they were just as insipid. The gay kid commented on Thunderbird's style, and they would go back and forth for hours. Doofus jock nervously glanced around, as though someone was waiting to kill him in the hallway, and sweated some more in preparation for the big performance. Meanwhile the loud girl watched him longingly, ever so pathetic in her yearning for him. What attracted her, I'm not exactly sure; the kid was often mind-bogglingly dumb. She probably was only in it for the prestige of dating the football captain, and perhaps for the satisfaction of taking him from that cheerleader girlfriend of his.

Schuester finally rolled in with modern music for a change. He handed everyone music and then basically gave himself the solo. Unimpressed with his shtick, I began to play along on my electric piano and watched the show.

For once the group actually had fun performing together, which was strange. Glee club had become largely a joyless affair, but perhaps that was just me projecting my own feelings.

Schuester remained convinced that doing a disco number was actually a good idea, which led me to believe that he had been dropped on his head into a disco ball as an infant.

The day before the event, the club arrived to tell me that they were performing a different song. I didn't bother asking if Schuester had condoned it; nothing would have changed his mind over this attempted disco party at the assembly. However, it would be absolutely hilarious to see the shit hit the fan so spectacularly, and I went along with their little plan.

"_Push It," _I thought, glancing over the song's lyrics. _That sounds rampantly sexualized. But I'm sure it'll be fine._

From behind the red curtain, the kids prepared their number while an oblivious Schuester attempted to be cool in his speech by using phrases such as "join the party" in reference to joining New Directions.

The assembly performance itself was beyond words. All at once filled with overt sexuality and incredible awkwardness, Schuester was boggled and the entire student body was at a loss for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, the entire gym broke out in applause. Despite the positive reaction, Schuester got into a hell of hot water with Figgins, our boss, in an attack on glee club's future at McKinley led by Sue. But in the end, the worst effect of the "Push It" fiasco was an empty threat of glee club only being allowed to sing songs about balloons or Jesus. Somehow, I knew that this would be forgotten sooner or later.

The following afternoon, the loud girl and doofus jock were using the auditorium. From the wings, I seethed as she used the piano without express written consent from me. Eventually the two of them retired to a picnic blanket randomly spread on the stage. I half-expected the loud girl to burst out into a Taylor Swift song about pining after a guy in a relationship, which was basically every Taylor Swift song. However, I quickly became disinterested and journeyed into my past.

How had I ended up in Lima, Ohio, working at this school, forced to endure all these melodramatic events? I hadn't always been here. Long ago, in a big city many miles away, I had been a vigilante. Under the cloak of the night, I had solved small crimes, turning in all the evidence I recovered at the local precinct, desiring neither recognition nor fame. I had my life and, while wanting to save the city from the grip of crime, I also didn't want to be classified as a hero. I'll admit: I'm rather callous and difficult to get along with. As a famous concert pianist in the city, I already received far too much attention for my liking. I didn't need to be the concert pianist who also solved crime. The media frenzy would have been unbelievable.

But then, I was met with a crime I couldn't solve, despite my best efforts. My mind was constantly occupied by the evidence I couldn't find, the clues I couldn't string together, and my career in music crumbled. In the end, I had to get away. Under the guise of an unkempt truck driver, I escaped the city forever and came to Lima, a town where no one bothered to learn more about you.

Since arriving in Lima, the ghosts of my past had been kept at bay. But every now and again, memories of that unsolvable case plagued me. The tiny, mismatched pieces of evidence I had collected rested in an urn on my mantle. When people asked, I simply told them the urn held the ashes of my enemies. That kept them from asking anything further.

By the time I left my reverie, the doofus jock had left the loud girl distraught on her picnic blanket. _I think something important and plot-relevant just happened, _I observed acutely.


	4. Chapter Three: Acafellas

Teaching these Glee kids to dance was more difficult than setting an object on fire with sheer force of will, a feat which I have yet been unable to accomplish despite years of practice. The latter may not be easier, but it is indubitably less awkward and painful to watch.

Schuester was at the front of the room, "shaking that thang" as only a thirty-year-old white man could. The kids, meanwhile, shuffled around without the slightest clue how to move their bodies. The head cheerleader (who had apparently joined glee club with her posse last week) outright refused to participate.

The loud girl, under heavy scrutiny from the head cheerleader, criticized Schuester's lack of dance talent. He seemed dubious. Once again, I yearned to smash his face into the piano keys until either the piano or his face broke, and I would kill him if he messed up my piano.

Suddenly, loud girl started babbling about some choreographer named Dakota Stanley and how talented he is and other stuff no one cares about. For some bizarre reason, loud girl seemed to forget that the club has absolutely no funding and there was no way in hell we could hire a choreographer.

The head cheerleader then took a jab at Schuester's pathetic life and pointed out that all of his dreams collapsed on him. _What a bitch, _I thought, awed by her ability to get right to the point. I have small shreds of respect for people who are outright bitches, who don't try to hide their streak of cruelty, especially when they target Schuester and other people I hate.

The following day, McKinley's own serious contender for the Total Fucking Moron Award returned, a man who surely should have died before breeding in a spectacular demonstration of Darwinism in action: the man who had cut off his own goddamn thumbs. In _shop class. _No one actually gets injured in shop class except complete nimrods and drug addicts. Fortunately, Mr. Eight Fingers was both. In the hallway I challenged him to a thumb war and immediately declared him the loser. Then I poked him with my thumbs repeatedly and called him a moron for good measure. I don't think he heard me through his cough-medication-clogged stupor.

At some point, Schuester started a boy band with other guys on the faculty who can't dance. _Can everyone in this freaking town carry a tune? It's not natural, _I pondered. With his new project, he completely abandoned glee club. Now, I anticipated freedom from this servitude of show tunes, but it was not to be; the club just kept showing up, waiting around for Schuester and forcing me to stick around and supervise them. Honestly, I never said a word to the brats; I simply read my magazines in the corner and fought the urge to start smashing faces. The head cheerleader somehow seized control of the room, and the club agreed to hire Dakota Stanley.

_Now, naturally, this Dakota guy isn't going to be up to snuff and everyone is going to learn a valuable lesson about appreciating others, _I realized as the door slammed behind the eager group. Perhaps I ought to warn them. But then how would they ever learn? Besides, I had happened upon a particularly intriguing article and I simply couldn't leave it.

In the midst of my article perusal, I paused to contemplate the sudden presence of cheerleaders in glee club. Head cheerleader was doofus jock's girlfriend, naturally, but somehow I doubted she had only joined to support him. They didn't seem like that sort of couple. Why, then, would the cheerleaders risk their hard-won positions as the most popular girls in school? I doubted any of them sought to express themselves, at least not this early in the year. Therefore, I could only assume they were on a sabotage mission. _Oh, what a shame, _I thought to myself, heart full of woe.

Schuester's boy band, Acafellas, was somehow succeeding. There was even a story about them in the local paper. Before long, the group had weeded out the guy without thumbs and that weird guy from Sheets N Things, to be replaced by doofus jock and one of his teammates, whose nickname, Puck, I only remembered because at heart, I was a sucker for Shakespeare. That, and it was amusing to imagine the kid as a fairy in a forest on a summer's eve. But without Schuester, the glee club continued to fall apart at the seams as the loud girl and the head cheerleader vied for control.

At some point the club organized a car wash to raise money for the choreographer (undoubtedly an asshole), which was basically an excuse for the cheerleaders to wear bikini tops with their tiny skirts. Then, out of nowhere, the single unusual and noteworthy event of the entire affair occurred: Thunderbird inexplicably threw a rock through gay kid's windshield. It was quite hilarious, or so I heard; car washes have been my ancient enemy from a time before time, and I did not attend.

Following the car wash, which was apparently ludicrously successful and raised several thousand dollars, Dakota Stanley arrived. I sat back to watch the moral of the week come crashing down through the ceiling onto their hopeful faces.

And did the moral ever fall with a resounding crash. Before my very eyes, the kids fired the man who they had been so desperate to procure. Personally, I didn't like the guy; he was a total asshole and it was hilarious for a second before I realized he was only an asshole due to his own lack of self-confidence. It's a fine line between apathy and making up for something in your assholery.

After all these nonsense, glee club went back to normal, except with slightly improved dancing. I still sat behind my piano, forcibly turned away from the painful choreography. Instead, I worked on my latest symphony, tentatively entitled "The Tale of the Pink-Striped Zebra," chronicling the life of a magical outcast zebra who wreaks revenge on her enemies and rains fire and glitter from the sky, effectively blinding and burning all adversaries. I must say, it's rather intense, although it's rather difficult to get into the proper frame of mind for the soulful arias with Schuester's version of creating fire with one's mind occurring in the background. Instead, in my time with the glee club, I penned the murderous rampage songs; but by this point, I had approximately twelve of those, plus one song that was about five bars of sadness and soul-searching and the rest was fire and glitter and even a couple rainbows accompanied by lightning bolts with deadly precision. _Perhaps the entire thing should be murderous rampage, _I contemplated. _Fuck redemption and inner peace. It's so overdone, anyway. There needs to be a magical pink-striped zebra symphony that revels in murder and nothing but murder, dammit. Where are the role models for the other pink-striped magical outcast zebras?_

As they interrupted my genius to play their melodies, I reflected on the fact that it seemed like every week a new moral was forcibly played out in this school, and yet all I had learned was that everything was rather predictable all the same. _At least I'm not the loud girl, _I realized, finally thankful for something.


	5. Chapter Four: Preggers

**It's been about forever and a day but in all honesty I completely forgot that I write this thing. Haha. It wasn't easy to make this chapter coherent, considering that "Preggers" is more about the various relationships within the club than one real overarching plot. But that's what you missed on _Glee_: an overarching plot.**

Sue Sylvester on local television? That can only end well. Although, in proper perspective, it wasn't even that big of a deal; anyone with the right amount of determination or a decidedly weird story can get on local TV. For someone already as notorious as Sue, a ten-minute segment on the nightly news was almost…yes, that word again. Predictable. That Sue's always doing something zany, by which token it's routine for her to do something insane. Nevertheless, her segments were rather amusing simply through their sheer insanity. The ego boost she got from it, however, was far less amusing.

Meanwhile, at glee club, it was all the same shit. The loud girl didn't get exactly what she wanted and stormed out again because goth Asian girl got a solo for once. The loud girl claimed she had a "personal connection" to the role, to which I would have replied that my bitch-slapping hand would quickly have a "personal connection" to her face. _I mean, my God, _I thought to myself, _take your "wah I'm underappreciated and taking it out on people who present me with opportunities" kvetching somewhere else. _

Gay kid was still steadfastly denying he was gay (Who the hell is he trying to fool?) and went out for the football team shortly afterward. I have no idea why, but I doubted it would last long. In Lima, extreme changes were often completely forgotten from week to week, and it was likely that soon after this, no one would ever speak of his stint as a kicker again.

I wandered past Figgins's office one afternoon and froze in horror, staring through the glass to see a conference of the most heinous variety.

_Oh, Jesus Christ, what the hell is Sandy Ryerson doing here? _I thought angrily. _I _just _got through with wiping his greasy finger marks off my goddamn piano!_

Within, Sandy and Sue sat on the couch, looking uncommonly serene, while an agitated Schuester paced around like a trapped animal. I could tell he was furious about something. But no one tells me anything, so I was forced to employ my lip-reading abilities. It was difficult; I hadn't lip-read in quite some time, considering there was very rarely a situation in Lima that requires lip-reading. There's just nothing that interesting happening. But I stared, unnoticed, deciphering their conversation.

But it seemed it was all a waste; it was some bullshit about Sandy shanghaiing the loud girl for a musical. I shook my head, annoyed that I had wasted my time on this. I knew she'd be back eventually, because glee club was where she belonged. Couldn't Schuester see exactly how this was going to play out as I could?

That afternoon, Schuester was rehearsing goth Asian girl's solo. She didn't quite hit the last big note as the loud girl would have, but I didn't see much of a problem with it; she still sounded good. Schuester got up for some motivational bullshit, which was my cue to leave. I took a moment to wistfully dream that I could leave this stage, this school, this town forever, punching Schuester in the face as I made my grand exuent. But even if I left, I knew I would simply go to another town just like this one, where perhaps I wouldn't be able to find such a cushy job, or worse, where the locals were even more obnoxious.

As I left, I caught the tail end of their conversation, where goth Asian girl outright told Schuester that the loud girl deserved this part more! What the hell? Why does everyone feel the need to cater to her? Besides, giving her what she wants all the time would only make her demand more. It was high time to take a stand, dammit! _Idiots, _I thought, fed up of it all.

But before I was out of the auditorium, I heard Schuester greet doofus jock. I paused and glanced back from the shadows. Visiting a teacher out of one's own free will? Something serious had to be going on. I watched and waited as, out of nowhere, the kid began crying. I was oddly moved and intensely interested. Now it was definitely serious; I had to restrain myself from inching closer for a better angle on the entire encounter.

They left quickly, presumably to talk in a more private location, but doofus jock spilled the beans before they were gone: the head cheerleader was pregnant, presumably with his child. I resisted the urge to loudly exclaim "OH SNAP!"

It slowly dawned on me: _Woah, what the fuck, something interesting and unpredictable just happened!_

The next day, I was playing simple melodies for the football team as Schuester attempted to teach them how to dance, awkwardly integrating sports and performance. The entire choir room smelled of sweat and man-ass, and the team tracked in fake grass all over the linoleum as they shuffled around in some semblance of coordinated movement. I morosely realized that this was what my life had become.

Then it was time for another big football game for McKinley to lose. Despite this, I hopped the fence and sat down to watch. What with Schuester spending a good chunk of time corralling the lumbering jocks into a dance routine, something amusing was bound to happen.

I was right, but what I and the rest of the crowd witness was beyond words, besides perhaps seven choice ones: they did the fucking Single Ladies dance. Not only did they dance around, lamenting a lack of a ring, it actually worked. And they looked fabulous. Then, just to top it all off, gay kid won the whole goddamn thing.

As I applauded with the rest and gay kid blew kisses at us fondly, I had but only one thought: _What the hell _is_ this school?_


	6. Chapter Five: Rhodes Not Taken

**I'll be honest: the hiatus definitely dimmed my interest in Glee, and unfortunately, in this story. Once S3 starts up I'll probably have more motivation, which is always good. I do have two paragraphs work of writing for the next chapter, "Vitamin D"; does that count for something? Nope? Okay. Here's "Rhodes Not Taken."**

**In other news, if someone could teach me how to respond directly to reviews I'd be much obliged.  
**

With the loud girl gone, the head cheerleader had pretty much taken her place vocally. That is, when she wasn't running out during rehearsals to puke. It was starting to become a bother, especially considering the club was in overdrive for some form of performance called an "invitational." Why Schuester couldn't just call it something that didn't sound intensely stupid, I don't know.

Everyone whined about the absence of the loud girl for awhile, which made absolutely no sense considering how much shit they give her. There they all were, those who had teased and ridiculed her most, lamenting the lack of her presence as if she was their fearless leader or something. _Can you all just make up your fucking minds?_ It was all even more ludicrous, considering the eventual inevitability of her return to glee club.

The next morning, Schuester hauled in an ex-student, April Rhodes. She smelt of alcohol, forgotten dreams, and desperation. Like so many McKinley students, she never made it out of Lima, but for some inane reason Schuester thought it would be a good idea to have her replace the loud girl. The other glee clubbers were dubious, so April decided to prove her mettle right then and there. Addressing me as "Tinkles," she ordered me to play "Maybe This Time" and even playfully threatened me. I suppressed my urge to have a real hoedown throwdown and instead did as she asked, seething and envisioning her passed out under a keg. It was immensely satisfying.

However, she definitely had a voice. But for some reason as the song built up, all the lights dimmed and a spotlight appeared out of nowhere, focused on her. _When the hell did we get a lighting crew in here? _I wondered, outraged. _They've told me a thousand times they can't afford another piano, but they can afford a freaking lighting crew?_

To my further outrage, I later discovered that Sandy had been granted a piano of his very own for his musical. I would have destroyed the thing through sheer force of will, but I simply couldn't do that to an innocent piano. So I simply resumed my usual mood of bitter seething and moved on.

April, meanwhile, won over the glee club through a combination of alcohol, sexual favors, and extremely inappropriate methods of smuggling. Schuester, as usual, was oblivious to it all. I had to stop and wonder if he only ever saw what he wanted to see. On my part, I had been forced to play music for Sandy's _Cabaret _rehearsals. It was torture, but at least I got to observe Sandy verbally abusing the loud girl up close and personal. Somehow, he had managed to weaponize her own pride and use it to keep her from the glee club. It seemed ridiculous that she couldn't completely see through this ruse, but she just kept playing along with Sandy's game of manipulation, which only made everything even funnier.

On the evening of the invitational event, whatever the hell it was, I was doing vocal warm-up with the glee club, sporting a sweet cowboy hat. The club's song was specifically chosen to match April's Southern accent. How she got a Southern accent being born and raised in Ohio isn't important. Fortunately, I could match the club's old-West apparel with my own, left over from a stint as the greatest rodeo clown in Kentucky state history.

April waltzed in, drunker than my grandmother on Christmas (Christmas parties in my family get wild) and went through the throng of the club, alternately antagonizing and flirting with each one in turn. The stench of hopelessness overpowered the odor of wine coolers, and I seethed, anticipating weeks of the lingering fog of terrible scents that no amount of Febreeze could truly eliminate. Emma Pillsbury walked in, an embodiment of extreme disapproval, and had a brief discussion with Schuester in the hallway. I strained to hear over April's attention-whorish vocal warm-up, and was rewarded with a snippet of Emma's sarcasm-laced dissatisfaction with Schuester's life choices. I resisted the urge to shout out, "Want some ice for that burn?" It wasn't nearly creative enough to truly make him feel like a total ass.

The performance went well, although I pitied the band kids, who were forced to dress up in cowboy garb like all the rest of us. They don't like changing their clothes; it makes them look like they care too much. But the moral of the week, some convoluted thing about sharing the spotlight, led to April's exit from the glee club right before the second act. How you call one song following a different song and an intermission an act, I'm not exactly sure. The kids all panicked at the loss of their lead vocalist, but look who came to the rescue! It's the loud girl's inevitable return, just in time to save the day because obviously, she knows the song and all the choreography perfectly, without any practice!

Head cheerleader pointed this out, but doofus jock stood up for her, and it was on with the show. I observed the interactions between doofus jock and the loud girl and concluded that more romantic sparks had flown in their unsteady relationship. I predicted they would be dating by the end of the school year.

But one thing that baffled me and that no one had an answer to was: A costume? Why the fuck would Schuester have a costume set aside for her? Could he, perhaps, be more perceptive than I originally surmised? I considered the possibility that Schuester wasn't as dumb as he looked, but quickly realized that that was a ludicrous notion. Schuester wasn't just as dumb as he looked; he was even dumber than he looked.


End file.
